The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3)

by Frances Fletcher

  He climbed a short staircase onto the subway platform, two levels below the concourse. He shone his flashlight all around. The beam barely illuminated the platform, but he could see an orange glow creeping down the steel subway beams. At the foot of each beam lay a growing pool of molten steel. He scratched his head. Three days had passed since the towers collapsed. Three days! And steel was still melting and flowing down subway columns. What the hell was going on here?

  He’d puzzle that out later. Right now, he hoped to find survivors. Straining to hear sounds of life, he remained still and listened. Near silence, except for the hissing of moisture on red-hot metal beams and the dripping of molten steel.

  “Hello.” No moans. No taps. The only human sound was his pulse swishing around inside his head. The soles of his shoes were getting hotter. He shuffled his feet and gasped for breath. He couldn’t stay here much longer. His heart was beating fast compensating for the lack of breathable air. “Anyone here?” He held his breath, tried to silence his pulsing heartbeat, and listened for the faintest sign of life.

  Nothing.

  Cupping his mouth, he yelled, “Hello!” No response. His shoulders sagged and he panned his flashlight. Grayish-white soot covered everything. He walked up the staircase that led to the concourse. But it was too hot. He couldn’t catch his breath. No one would have survived here for more than a few minutes.

  Thinking like a crime-scene technician instead of a rescuer, he emptied the leather handcuff case attached to his gun belt and crammed his cuffs into his back pocket. He stuffed a heaping handful of soot into his handcuff case and snapped it shut.

  He gulped for air, but the intense hotness made it so hard to breath. The heat chased him back to the subway tunnel. He bent over and took some breaths. The air was dusty but a tad cooler and more breathable here. Maybe someone had made it this far.

  He flashed the Maglite in spurts, but it had dimmed and the beam did not travel far. “Hello!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Anyone here?”

  He stood still and listened.

  Hissing and creaking.

  Creaking! The metal was bending. Gotta get outt’a here. There was no one left to save anyway.

  After taking a shallow breath he bolted back down the tunnel. He had only run a few feet when his flashlight went out. Surrounded by blackness, he stopped short. He banged the Maglite against his thigh and it came back on. Aiming it down the tunnel, he saw a strip of orange. The tape! He rushed toward it, and the lightbulb dimmed once more, thrusting him into complete darkness. He banged the Maglite again and again, but it wouldn’t come back on.

  He took a calming breath and walked forward slowly, arms stretched out in front of him. The further he walked, the brighter it became. Finally, enough daylight made it through the grates to reach the yellow reflective paint on the side of the tunnel. He scanned his surroundings until he saw the next column wrapped with orange tape. He picked up his pace.

  Daylight stung his eyes as he reached the open subway grating. He looked down and waited a few minutes before climbing out of the tunnel. After he stepped onto the sidewalk, he tore the orange tape off the grate and slammed it closed. He lowered his head and remained motionless for a moment. There would be no more rescues.

  Resigned to help with the recovery, Mark took a deep breath and headed back to the pit.

  Chapter 15

  Richie left the prison in a daze, with too many questions and no answers. Hours sped by as he drove east on the interstate. He had just passed through Columbus when a wall of exhaustion hit him like a tsunami. The pavement rippled as he struggled to keep the Bronco in the slow lane. He took the next exit and stopped at a motel.

  He returned to the interstate just after dawn. Three hours was about all his body would let him sleep nowadays, but that was all he needed. He drove straight through the rest of Ohio and Jersey in the fast lane.

  As he entered the mouth of the Holland Tunnel, his throat thickened. Seeing Rashid after all this time, and driving through this damn tunnel, brought it all back, the summer of ’93. Sweat beads rolled down his forehead as he drove deeper into the tunnel.

  Gilbert had died right here, in the driver’s seat of a van bomb. A split second after he’d lit a propane tank rigged with a dual fuse, an NYPD sharpshooter shot him dead. The explosives piled in the back of the van hadn’t detonated, but should have. Had Gilbert disconnected the fuse attached to the explosives before lighting the fuse to the tank?

  At the same time that Gilbert was killed, Richie was slinking away from the explosive-laden van he had parked in the Lincoln Tunnel. As a mole working for the Joint Terrorist Task Force, he’d only pretended to light the fuses. Had Gilbert been a mole working for the feds? And not a terrorist?

  Back then, Richie was convinced Rashid ran the operation. Bombs in the tunnels and bombs in the garages of the Federal and the United Nations buildings were planned to explode within minutes of each other. But Rashid was arrested and the Impoverished exposed. At least, that’s what Richie had thought, all these years. Now, he didn’t know what to believe.

  What had Rashid meant when he’d said the Impoverished wasn’t real? Richie had worked deep undercover for eight years pretending to be a terrorist. For what! He clenched the steering wheel. Had it all been for nothing?

  After parking on Duane Street, Richie grabbed his phone, looked at the time display and slapped his forehead. It was 6:00 p.m. and he wasn’t due back to work until 6:00 a.m. As he turned the truck back on, he shook his head. He needed to get a handle on things. If anyone could help him figure things out, Matt could. Richie sighed and then shrugged. What the hell? Might as well visit him. Matt’s resting place was just a few blocks past his apartment anyway.

  He drove over the Brooklyn Bridge, down Fourth Avenue, and turned into Green-Wood Cemetery. After making a few wrong turns, he found Matt’s plot and got out of the car. He sat in the grass and told his friend all that had happened since Tuesday, and at some point, he began to cry. He lowered his head. “Matt, I’m sorry. It should’ve been me.” He looked up and stared at Matthew Rosen’s name etched in granite.

  The guilt hadn’t lessened over the years. He should’ve stopped Ibrihim from detonating the bomb on the bus. At the very least, he should have boarded the bus first—then Matt would be alive. He kneaded his scarred forearms, a permanent reminder of the explosion, and rose to his feet. “Matt, I promise.” He straightened his shoulders. “I will find the truth.”

  But he needed help to reason it all out. Unless Matt decided to haunt him, there was only one other place to go. He hopped into the Bronco, cranked down the window, and let the wind dry his cheeks. He reached Bay Ridge in ten minutes.

  In the lobby, he exhaled and rang the buzzer under the name Ronzone.

  “Who is it?” Mel’s voice sounded through the intercom.

  He waved at the video camera and managed a weak smile.

  “Rich!” Her surprised but happy-to-see him tone lifted his spirits. He had come to the right place.

  A buzz sounded, and Richie pulled open the lobby door.

  Mel was standing outside her first-floor apartment. “Good to see you, Richie.” She reached up and hugged him, and he squeezed back, needing a friend’s warmth. She patted his back. “Come in,” she said, nudging the apartment door open.

  After he stepped inside Richie blinked in shock. A beautiful blonde woman sat on the edge of the couch; her perfect posture oozing elegance in jeans and a faded T-shirt.

  “I have company.” Mel closed the door. “Richie, this is Eva.”

  The woman’s long delicate fingers steadied a wine glass on the coffee table and she looked up. An emotional wave he couldn’t identify washed over his heart and he stopped breathing for a moment.

  “From upstairs.” Mel elbowed him and huffed. “I’ve mentioned her a zillion times.”

  “Yes, of course. Eva.” He took a breath and held out his hand. “Mel talks about you all the time. I feel as if I already know you.”r />
  Eva began to stand.

  “Please don’t get up.” He stepped closer and shook her hand. And his skin tingled. Pleasurably. Very pleasurably. Had she felt a reaction from him too? No, it was just wishful thinking. After all, she was the most perfect woman he had ever laid eyes on, and he was a lot of things. Not one of them even close to perfect. He let her hand go, but would have liked to hold it forever. Dare I sit next to her? He gestured at the couch.

  “Please.” She nodded and smiled. “Sit,” she said with a slight Russian accent.

  Without taking his gaze away from her eyes he sat beside her. Her vivacious green eyes drew him in. He felt wonderful just being near her.

  “So, you’re Richie,” she said, and retrieved her wine glass. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  He tensed, she probably knew just as much about him as he did about her, which was a lot. Did she know he’d lived among terrorists?

  “All good things, from Mel and Mark.” She brought the wine glass to her lips.

  He relaxed.

  Mel handed him a cold Bud. “What brings you here?” she asked.

  He glanced at Eva and took a sip of beer. How much should he say in front of her?

  “I should go.” Eva placed her glass back on the coffee table. “It’s late.”

  “Stay,” Mel said. “You’ll want Richie’s opinion.”

  “Ask me anything,” he said, and leaned forward. “I just got back from interrogating Rashid in prison. I could use a distraction.”

  “Wow.” Mel plopped down in the chair adjacent to the couch. “Rashid.” She whistled. “After all this time.”

  Eva stared wide-eyed at him. “Rashid, the terrorist?”

  “That’s just it.” He wondered if Eva remembered Rashid from the newspapers. “I don’t think he is a terrorist.”

  “What?” Mel stared at him. “He ordered you to bomb the Lincoln Tunnel. He is a terrorist!”

  Richie shook his head. “The feds may have used him as a patsy.” He peered at the women and shrugged. “I’m a bit confused about the whole thing.”

  Mel tapped his Bud with her own beer bottle. “Here’s to figuring it out.”

  He downed his beer.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes until Mel edged up on her chair and waved her hand over the coffee table. “Eva found something alarming at work today. I’d like you to read it.”

  “Anything to get my mind off Rashid.”

  “This might be connected to him.”

  He sat up straight.

  Eva’s gaze drifted to the loose papers spread over the coffee table. “I made copies of these reports. If they’d caught me, I would’ve been fired on the spot.” Long elegant arms twisted around her shoulders as she wrapped herself in a hug.

  “Don’t you work for the Council?”

  Eva nodded.

  “A benevolent United Nations type of organization, right?”

  Eva let out a breath. “It depends on what you know about the United Nations.”

  “World peace, right? What else is there to know?”

  She groaned and shook her head. “World peace? No!” she said and shook her head. “Peace is a cover story.” Her chin began to tremble.

  Richie couldn’t keep his eyes from Eva’s pink lips, even as they quivered. Especially because they quivered. “A cover, but—”

  “The Rocks created the United Nations to manage world affairs. Philanthropy is only a diversion.” Eva ran a finger along the rim of her wine glass. “I didn’t know that when I accepted my position at the Council.”

  Richie gaze darted from Eva’s face to Mel’s and back to Eva. “What does the United Nations have to do with the Council?”

  “The Council’s chairman, Dewer Rock, along with elite internationalists use the Council to set agendas for the United Nations.”

  “Dewer Rock! But he’s one of the richest men in the world!” He shook his head. “He’s into medical and educational foundations. Isn’t he one of the good guys?”

  Eva choked on her wine and shook her head.

  “Read the papers, Rich.” Mel went to the kitchen and brought back a fresh beer. “This’ll help you get through it,” she said and handed him the bottle.

  After taking a long sip, he picked up the first pile and read the title: Operation Northwoods. As he read through the fifteen-page report summary he felt as if he was sinking deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole. A Pearl Harbor-like event was necessary to rally the nation. He guzzled some beer and continued reading. Planes would be flown into domestic buildings in US cities and blamed on the Cubans as a pretext for war. He looked up. “This report was produced by the Joint Chiefs of Staff in 1962. What is the Council doing with it?”

  “Look here.” Mel took the papers and flipped to the last page. She pointed below a bold blank line, where the name John F. Kennedy was typed. Above the line, instead of the commander-in-chief’s signature, there was rip in the paper made by a dark pen. “Clearly, JFK did not approve this proposal.”

  “And he was assassinated a year and a half later.” He took another sip. “You know, some historians believe that the CIA assassinated him.” Richie finished his beer and rolled the empty bottle between his palms. “I don’t understand why the Council is in possession of this report.”

  “Dewer Rock’s family established the CIA for corporate espionage—it wasn’t created by the US government. The only thing federal about the CIA is that taxpayers fund it.” Eva rolled her eyes.

  “I had no idea,” Mel said, as she refilled Eva’s wine glass and set the bottle on the coffee table. “Scary.”

  Eva nodded a thanks. “That’s another thing I didn’t know when I took the job at the Council House.” She took a sip and then handed Richie another pile of papers. “This report was produced last September by Council members. It’s a modernized version of Operation Northwoods.”

  Taking the papers, he sighed, and read the title, Rebuilding America’s Defenses: Strategies, Forces, and Resources For a New Century. The title alone made his head spin. He ran his fingers under his chin. How deep did the rabbit hole go?

  Eva took the empty beer bottles and stepped into the kitchenette. She returned with a fresh beer for him and one for Mel. She sat close beside him.

  “Thanks.” He took a swig before diving into the body of the report. His eyes grew wide, and he read part of the report aloud. “Absent some catastrophic and catalyzing event like a new Pearl Harbor to advance global agendas.” He banged the beer bottle onto the table. “Bastards!” He covered his mouth with his hand and looked around for the baby.

  “Hope is asleep,” Mel said.

  He shoved a napkin under the beer to absorb the overflow. “The Council planned the attacks!”

  Eva began to shake. “I can’t go back to the Council House.” Her chest heaved and she lowered her head. “I cannot.”

  Richie clasped Eva’s trembling hands. “You have to find out what else Dewer Rock is planning. According to this report, he and his cohorts are using the attacks as a springboard for something even worse.”

  Eva sniffled as she struggled to regain her composure.

  He gently squeezed her hands. “You’re scared, I know how you feel. When I worked undercover in the Impoverished, I was scared too. I pushed through the fear and so can you.”

  Boxer trotted in from the hall, where he had been guarding the bedroom. He whined, sniffed Eva’s and Richie’s entwined hands, and pattered over to Mel.

  Eva’s lower lip quivered. “I cannot. I’m sorry.”

  “The Council is just getting started.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. The report says that they’re planning a war on terror.”

  “You can help stop them.” Richie stared into her eyes. “I will not let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

  I should I go back to work, I know’’—Eva squeezed his hand—“but I’m too frightened.”

  Richie walked Eva out of the apartment and into the lobby. “Can I call
you in the morning?” he asked, hoping to convince her to return to the Council House. And just to hear her voice again.

  She stopped at the foot of the staircase and faced him. “If I go back to work, I won’t know how to act.” Eva tucked dusty blonde strands behind her ear with an unsteady hand. “I’ll be scared all day.”

  Richard offered a weak smile. “Try not to worry. Don’t let them see that you’re nervous.”

  “What if they find out I’m spying?” A tear dripped down her cheek.

  Richie’s chest tightened with concern for her. “Keep to your routine and just be yourself.” He wanted to hug her, reassure her, but it wouldn’t be fair. She had every reason to worry.

  “I’m in the US on a work visa. I’ll be deported if I lose this job,” she said. “I don’t want to go back to Russia.”

  Richie swallowed, humbled by the risks she would undertake. “Have you applied for citizenship?”

  She nodded and climbed a step. “Will you walk me up?”

  “Of course.” He followed her to the second-floor landing. While she unlocked her apartment door, he fished his personal card from his wallet, the one that included his private cell number. He’d do anything to keep her safe. Night or day. He held it out, but she took his hand and tugged him toward the doorway.

  “Come inside,” she said.

  So it wasn’t wishful thinking, after all. This amazing woman was interested in a scrub like him. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  But he couldn’t be with her. Not yet. She deserved to know about his past first. “How about some coffee?”

  “Coffee?”

  “Did Mel tell you how we first met?”

  “You saved her life in a shootout.”